the cheerless towns
by Evil's Sidekick
Summary: AU. In which Dean's severely messed up, and Sam's in love with him, and they're both in a private all-boy's school in Northern Britain. sam/dean, dean/castiel
1. Chapter 1

Later, they call the library an accident waiting to happen. The school governors, like circling hyenas, spot the opportunity to propose more renovations, and the bid to knock down the oldest buildings in the school is duly approved.

The charred shell of the old library, circa 1860 stands forlornly to the edge of the property. Students who sneak in revel in the memory of bright flames and coaly smoke, history being taken down brick by brick to be reclaimed by earth; the shattered walls and creaking wooden floors, the smell of ash lingering in the air like an old grudge.

Not much investigation is made into the cause. It was old; it was potentially dangerous, and could have injured one of the fee-paying students. A blessing in disguise, really. The vague claims of a sighting of a figure with a hood drawn up and a can are dismissed without further thought.

Two weeks later, a student named Dean Winchester quietly transfers out of school. He doesn't state a reason. No one asks.

In the upheavals of the physical appearance of the school, the crash of hammer against nail and bricks rising to form walls like a band of children hiding a dead body, the truth hides, waiting, waiting.

(break)

He's too pretty to be a boy. _Pretty enough to get away with anything, _as his mother used to say, as his father now echoes with a twist to his mouth, as if tasting the irony of his words. She called Dean handsome. John is the one who settles for pretty.

The students at his new school spot this immediately, as is to be predicted. Seventeen years old, with a hunter's confidence of himself; he doesn't worry about it. On his first week, he encounters three boys, all older, two bigger, and walks away with a black eye and a smirk. The boys don't come back to school the next day. One's ribs are broken, and the other two refuse to speak. All three flinch visibly and hold still ever afterwards when Dean Winchester passes by.

So it's established; the pretty new boy isn't to be messed around with. He's given a wide berth; when he makes some comment with a cocky tilt of his neck, smartass set of his mouth, people smile strainedly and back off.

His teachers know him to be a smart mouthed, bright boy, too sharp for his own good like a shard of glass catching the light. His Form Master –Mr. Robert Singer- watches him from afar, feigning indifference.

He's sent to the Headmaster's Office for improper conduct in a classroom (his disambiguation of Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard bordering on pornography, sparking violent controversy, though later his English master admits it to be one of the most cleverly-phrased papers he'd seen in his entire career.) on the second month.

And that's where he meets Sam Campbell.

(break)

"Hey," and Dean starts.

Across the beige carpet of the main office, just near the ceiling-high window that lets in all the sunlight that floods the room, stands another boy. He's taller than Dean, bonier; his crossed arms look like blades. Despite that, his eyes are a wide, open hazel and his grin is summery and artless.

He doesn't wait for Dean to reply, instead pushing his brown hair from his forehead and saying, excitedly, "you're Dean Winchester."

A black feeling touches Dean's spine with fingertips of ice and he's instantly on guard, but the boy's still smiling like a six-year-old on Christmas. "You want an autograph or something?"

The kid throws his head back and laughs and Dean relaxes fractionally. Taller than Dean; younger than Dean/ not everything that looks dangerous lives up to the promise, he reminds himself. "Nah," the kid says. "You beat up Riddell, though. That _does _allow you celebrity status. I'm Sam, by the way."

He moves forward, into the frame of the French windows and for a second Dean's blinded. His handshake is warm, big hand enveloping Dean's.

Sam's smile is bright, and white, nothing underneath. He's got hair that's perpetually falling into his eyes, which are the color of Autumn leaves. His tie is unscissored, entirely intact, and though he's not wearing the poncy regulation knee-high grey socks (his are green; Dean's have a pattern of ponies on them, and are bright pink. Socks are the school's most expressive form of rebellion) his shoes are clean.

And Dean's bored.

Naturally, he thinks, _for now. _

So it's inevitable that they become friends.

(break)

Early winter, snow blocking the paths that crisscross the school like scars. Sam Campbell at the corner of his vision as he fights down an old, familiar rage, one that needed no name.

Sam's fingers around Dean's wrist, a patch of unbearable warmth on his chilled skin, Sam dragging him towards one building or the other, saying "c'mon, haven't shown you that one yet, it's so cool." Dean follows, most of the time because he's got nothing better to do.

He teaches Sam, this wide-eyed kid, how to make explosives from heads of matchsticks and cricket balls. His fingers curve around the leather, the harsh seams of the ball and for a second, he can almost hear the glass shattering into a million pieces of light.

Sam watches him all the time. Dean can feel it like a physical touch. Not aggressive, never aggressive. But something else. Something unnamed and not quite _clean_, not quite _Sam. _Dean pushes that thought away.

Strange kind of joy, climbing up to the roof of the Church tower where the rafters are loose and treacherous. Sitting on the edge, their words mixed with the cigarette smoke hanging in the air like a coded message from another planet. Sam tells him about his family, his little sister with leukemia and his preoccupied parents. At such an elevated height, Sam's body looks less and less like a deathtrap, his jagged edges mellowed in the sunset, his legs long, endless. He looks at Dean, hungry for approval yet somehow content. Dean thinks, with sudden clarity and unforgivable indifference, _he thinks these are the best days of his life._

Dean doesn't bother to correct him. Later, when Sam's fingers touch the back of his hand, careful, light touch, Dean doesn't move. For a second, he stops breathing entirely, holds still, thinking on a loop, _this is how you become immortal. _

(End part one)


	2. Chapter 2

The whole school lets out a collective exhale as the bell rings at the end of the day, a great sigh sweeping the grounds that makes the desks clatter and the respectful hum of conversation rise to a din.

Dean sits on the floor with his back to the wall, his eyes gone numb by the glint of the penknife in his hand. He turns it over and over, attracting the occasional curious look from the flood of students. The corridor's overrun by the time the classroom he's sitting outside lets out as well.

"Carpe diem, gentlemen, and that right quickly," the form master of 3N says, in a dry tone, and the laughter at that is swallowed in the rising tide of noise that comes from the class. Dean hears it all, and has a sense of being invisible.

A voice says, unexpectedly near, "Mr. Winchester, I presume," and Dean looks up, half-startled. Mr. Novak is standing directly above him, pulling on a trench coat. He stands irritatingly in the shadow of the pillar, and Dean has to squint and cock his head slightly to pick out his features.

Novak's got blue eyes that glimmer with a sort of generalized good humor, the irony hidden carefully beneath. He's got an angled tilt to his mouth that seems maliciously amused, like he knows about all of Dean's failings and finds them somewhat hilarious.

Castiel Novak, B.A., looks like the kind of man who can hurt Dean very, very badly.

So naturally, Dean says, "Yeah, that's me. Aren't you glad you found out?"

A twist to his mouth, like the nick of a knife against skin, a clean, quick cut. He doesn't seem surprised; his blue eyes still hold on to that hint of irony and amusement.

"On your feet. The trophies may wait but whatever plans you made for a Friday night won't." With that, he's heading away, his coat whipping a path in the air as it hangs familiarly around his shoulders.

Dean follows him to the Deputy Headmaster's office where the school trophies are kept on display, a stalwart line of bluntly gleaming figurines for the First XI and tennis medals from decades ago. The Head himself is heading out of the room as they arrive, and smiles blandly at Novak.

"Detention," Novak explains as if volunteering the information rather than answering the older man's silent question. It's well known that Headmaster Zachariah is wary of Novak, because of his Oxford background and intense popularity with the students. "We'll be polishing the trophies."

Zachariah smiles, exposing blunt canine teeth. "Excellent." Then, a sideway's glance at Dean, sly and unexpected, shrewd. "Winchester's not one of yours."

Novak shakes his head, his smile easy, but Dean can see his shoulders tense. "I'm filling in for Bobby."

Zachariah smiles even wider. His eyes, Dean notices, are a shade of washed out blue, like old denim. Their contrast to his blond hair is somewhat disconcerting, like a badly photo-shopped picture of the ideal headmaster. "Excellent," he says again.

There's a moment of silence, thick and uncomfortable. Finally, Novak breaks it by moving significantly towards the room.

"Ah, yes. Carpe diem and all that." In the Head's distinct Midlands accent, the school motto sounds like the slogan of a bad cartoon. "Take care not to get in further trouble." He makes it clear that he means both of them.

Castiel's smile shows the slightest strain, the corners of his eyes hard. "We'll do our best." His words momentarily draw him and Dean together, soldiers on enemy territory.

Dean smiles at Zachariah, a full, curving grin that makes the man blink slowly. "Care to join us, sir?"

Zachariah's eyes flood with fury for a split second before the colorlessness resumes. He smiles another fanged grimace, and sidesteps Novak delicately.

Novak is chuckling quietly, shaking his head. "You may find it beneficial, in the future, to rethink taunting him." He nods at the direction the Head went down. His voice contains no actual chastisement; he sounds like he means it.

Dean rolls his shoulders, relaxed and somehow restless at the same time. He goes into the room and stands framed by the window for a second, dying sunlight slanting towards him, and when he turns back, he finds Castiel staring at him, looking profoundly surprised.

Dean smiles.

(break)

"Dean, you say," Ellen Harvelle-Campbell's voice sounds dubious, rolling his name around her mouth like a candy whose flavor she wasn't yet sure of.

Dean nods, Sam's fingers long and vice-like around his wrist, hissing under his breath _come on, _but Dean holds his ground.

Sam's stepmother is a formidable woman with an aggressive tilt of her (unlipsticked) mouth as if perpetually judging the worth of her surroundings. Dean can tell that the only exception to this unflinching criticism is Joanna, Sam's legendary golden-haired, terminally ill stepsister whose existence Dean half-doubted till he saw the pictures lining the hallway at the Campbell residence. Sam, too, features in these photos occasionally, awkward and a head above everyone else in the most recent, and dwarfed in the older ones.

"Yes, ma'am." Dean smiles out of habit, charming and ingratiating, the kind of smile that makes these upper-crust billionaire wives melt. Ellen seems miles away from melting, but Dean expected that. No hard feelings. If anything, he's impressed-amused. "Dean Winchester."

That gets a reaction. "Any relation to John Winchester?" she asks, head cocked.

Her curiosity unsettles Dean. Normally accustomed to cocked ears at the mention of his dad's name, her expression is different from the others' when she asks. "He's my father."

Sam's fingers are still on the cuff of his sleeve. Ellen's frowning, eyes narrowed at Dean. "What is it?" Sam asks, his unease plain.

She shakes her head. "Someone mentioned Dean's surname to me, not too long ago. Just trying to place it." She shakes her head again. Her nails, clenched convulsively around the cushion of the sofa, are unpolished, and cut to a reasonable length. She really is the last thing Dean expected. "Anyway, you must be impatient, so go, do whatever you normally do." Her eyes rest coolly on Sam. "No trouble."

"No trouble," Sam repeats in a sweet, honeyed tone that's meant to fool no one.

Ellen looks at Dean once more. He's getting used to the weight of her gaze, the metallic, judgmental quality of it. "Dean Winchester," she repeats.

Sam drags him out without further urging. Once outside, he begins apologizing for her. "She's like that all the time, so fucking weird." His eyes catch on Dean's, bright and huge once more. "What are we gonna do today?"

Dean stares over his shoulder at the glimpse of the road exposed by the strategically placed oaks, beyond the tended gravel path to Sam's house. A red Porsche zips by, leaving the quiet echo of a dream behind. "Have you ever seen how _useful _empty beer bottles are?"

(break)

The escape from the police car leads them to the forest near the Winchester residence, and Sam and Dean lean against the massive trees, breathless and laughing.

Tears are streaming from Sam's eyes, his face fatally flushed. He doubles over as a fresh round of laughter overcomes him, wheezing and gasping for breath in the filtered sunlight.

Dean leans his head back, the skin of his neck scraping against the coarse bark of the tree, and breathes heavily, a grin still clinging on to the edges of his mouth like an evil thought.

Eventually they stop laughing and Dean watches Sam watching him, fall-colored eyes lidded, hidden.

"Chucking beer bottles from an overpass, fucking genius, you are," and Sam's voice sounds raw, the private-school polish scraped off from his syllables by the alcohol. Dean's almost certain Sam just had his first taste of supermarket beer -not to mention actual vandalism- today. "Seriously. The people here, they. They don't even _know, _so fucking useless, like being dead. They're all dead."

Dean shakes his head, kind of completely amused as Sam hunts around for words, his hands gesturing wildly, bright-eyed and earnest. "You're not like that. You're...different. Fireworks, Dean," he says, with sudden urgency. "You're like fireworks. And...and pancakes with lots of syrup."

Dean laughs outright, and Sam's face brightens with confused joy. "These are a few of my favorite things, huh, Sammy?"

He nods vigorously. "Yep. You're my favorite thing."

And then he gets that look- blank eyed, starring at Dean's mouth. Dean licks his lips and it's only half deliberate. He takes a step forward, only a bit unsteady, away from the proscribed boundary of the tree he's leaning against. Dean watches him.

"Oh yeah," Sam mumbles, now mere inches from Dean, who has his fingers splayed across the wood of the tree trunk. "You're pretty perfect."

Sam looms over him, taller than Dean remembers him being back at the overpass, cheeks red with joy. This Sam looks focused, steady. Older.

Slowly, not breaking eye contact, Sam bites the underside of Dean's jaw, and Dean hisses. Sam's tongue flicks out and tastes the bruised flesh, and Dean shivers, tangling a hand in Sam's brown hair. He yanks his head up and kisses him roughly, the angle all wrong, bringing their teeth together.

Sam tastes of beer and candy, the front of his teeth slick. Dean feels his hands roaming, the sudden warmth of a hand slipping up his school shirt. Sam's got big hands, long fingers that Dean noticed earlier, that brazenly swipe across his nipples. Dean arches into him, shirt snagging on the uneven wood. He tastes his name on Sam's lips, and later, when he kneels, intimate thwack of kneecap against fallen leaves, Sam looks at him like he's the very center of the universe.

(break)

Novak's marking assignments, red pen vigilantly scrawling and ticking, and Dean is bored beyond comprehension. There's an itch at the back of his throat that he attributes to the layer of chalk that lies over everything like the residue of a vague nightmare. He flicks a finger against a trophy, making it echo shallowly, a faint ting.

Earlier, in the restrooms, he had slipped a hand inside Sam's trousers and stroked, Sam's mouth a hot, wet brand on his neck. Sam was glowing after, grinning unguarded and crazy, thumbs hooking experimentally on Dean's empty belt loops. He strenuously objected to Dean's having to go for detention, and Dean had laughed, saying _look at you, full-out rebel now, huh?_

Sam had huffed and flushed, eyes cast slyly downwards. "Whatever. You're only going because you fancy Novak."

Dean shakes his head now, half-smiling. As if sensing the tangent of his thoughts, Novak looks up.

"More polishing, less dreaming," he says, with that enigmatic slant of a smile.

"Yes sir," Dean says, smiling back for what it's worth.

It works. Castiel Novak's eyes trace the curve of his bottom lip, and quickly duck away. Dean feels his interest lingering on his lips, a comfortable touch of blue eyes.

"Interesting homework, sir?" he asks casually.

The corners of Castiel's lips curve, though his eyes don't leave the papers. "You'd think they'd arrive to official adolescence knowing how to spell."

"Hmm." For some reason, Dean thinks of Sam, who is considered the brightest in Novak's grade. Sam can probably spell. "Maybe they're protesting against the conventions of writing."

Castiel snorts. "That's possible, of course."

(new paragraph)

Dean shrugs. "They've a democratic right to spell anything the way they want to."

Castiel looks up, finally. His eyes are bright with interest. "You genuinely believe in a land of no convention, don't you?" He leans back in the deputy's ornate mahogany armchair, pen falling slack on to the stack of papers on the table. "A sort of modern-day Peter Pan."

He's captivated now, Dean can tell. The guise of preoccupation has been dropped; his eyes are unflinching and curious on Dean's. "Tell me, Winchester," he says, and Dean flinches involuntarily at the tone, so eerily reminiscent of his dad's. "What do you expect to grow up to be?"

Dean shrugs. "Que sera disease,I guess. I'm going to cross that bridge when I get to it."

Castiel Novak exhales, a tiny smile on his lips. "I must admit, it's a relief to hear an exception to the doctor-scientist-engineer monotone, however vague." He smiles wider at Dean, co-conspirators. Dean wonders how much of this charm is genuine. It's hard to tell, and the fullness of Novak's lips and shoulders is distracting Dean very badly.

"Well, sir, I've always been exceptional," Dean says mild, but not attempting to disguise it as anything other than a pass at his teacher.

Castiel smirks. "And so modest, too."

Nothing more is said on the subject, and the evening wears on, comfortable silence and a million implications underneath.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam's plucking at his sleeve, quick, vicious little tugs that leave creases. He's saying, come on, something I've gotta tell you and the glossy vowels of his privileged life drag and snag, his voice uneven with excitement.

Dean's watching the school parking lot, where an old Austin Princess is pulling out. The driver waves casually at a passing student; Dean's hands clench, a gritty taste in his mouth like old coins. He watches until the car draws parallel with them, and continues on after a near-unnoticeable hesitation.

Sam notices nothing. "Well?" He's walked a little way down the sidewalk, expecting Dean to follow. He doesn't seem surprised to see Dean still frozen in place. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes burning. He looks hot to the touch, as if running a fever. He looks as if he could burn, could scorch, by the merest graze of a fingertip. Dean looks at him, considering.

"Let's go," he says, and Sam doesn't light up like he usually does, just nods violently and all but runs down the pavement.

This time, Dean follows.

(break)

"I have something to tell you," Sam says. He's chewing on his lower lip, eyes still fever-bright and worried. His hair hangs in his eyes, looking messed around with.

Dean shrugs, sitting down on the carpet of leaves underfoot. He doesn't know why they're in the forest, and wonders whether he really wants to.

"Remember how Ellen was really cryptic when she heard your name?" Sam asks, dragging a hand through his hair once more. "Well, she talked to me about it yesterday. I tried to get a hold of you, but you were in detention."

Dean looks down briefly, but there's nothing accusatory in Sam's voice. "Yeah, Sam?" he prompts, watching his shoes as they burrowed into the soil with indifference.

"Well," Sam inhales, and Dean looks up at him sharply. He's still standing, and seems impossibly tall from this vantage. Sam's nothing if not almost annoyingly articulate, and the speechlessness doesn't suit him at all. "I, I think there's a good chance we're brothers."

Dean blinks at him, and he goes redder in his haste to explain."Half-brothers, I mean. My mother -my real mother, I mean, not Ellen, my real mother's dead- was supposed to be crazy for your dad, but he was in love with your mother. After your mother died, she supposedly put the moves on your dad, and married my dad when she realized she was pregnant. Of course, it's all rumors, and my dad denies the whole thing, but..." Sam trails off.

For the first time, Dean identifies the expression on Sam's face: tangled with worry and fear, it's not disgust, or shock. Sam's overjoyed. Dean stares up at him in silence, feeling his throat go dry.

"What?" he asks, weakly.

Sam kneels in front of him, eyes shining, face aglow. "Brothers, Dean. We're brothers." He says the word reverently, like a piece of exquisite china, so fragile it breaks at the slightest of touches.

"Brothers," Dean echoes, his tone flat.

Sam's face changes, mouth crimping. "You...you're not-" and then his expression changes once more, and Dean has a sudden unwanted glimpse at his thoughts, and he wants to yell no Sammy, it's not like that, but his voice has faded too ash at the fire of Sam's joy.

"Dean," he says, like a prayer. "Dean, that doesn't change anything." He gathers both Dean's hands in his. He leans forward, and Dean's too shell-shocked to move back. He lets Sam kiss his cheekbones, his jaw, his eyelids, then, finally, his mouth.

A long, desperate kiss that goes on and on and Dean's floating, barely registering the big hands sneaking under the waistband of his trousers. In his mind, a young voice repeats, over and over, brothers, Dean. We're brothers.

Then his thoughts focused, pinpointing on a man with his green eyes and Sam Campbell's way of carrying himself, all shoulders and chest. He thought, without doubt, or hesitation: John, you son of a bitch.

(break)

"The best part is, he's had the gall to blame me for Mother's death." Dean smiles, and his smile, like the scotch, tastes metallic and bloody. "Internal bleeding and millions of doctors crawling all over the place, and he blames the newborn."

Novak's blue eyes seem luminous, his expression one of relaxed concern. "And where is he now?"

Dean shrugs his shoulders. "Fuck if I know. Balanced relationship that we have, he just takes off on his fucking private jet and tells the cook not to let me die."

Castiel chuckles quietly and with no real humor. He's sprawled on the chair, legs spread wide and careless, and his neck at an uncomfortable angle to look at Dean sitting opposite. There's no way he misses the way Dean's starring openly at his lips.

Dean's done with his two weeks of detention, and Castiel was as stunned as he was when Novak agreed to break into the Deputy's drinks cabinet. Dean's heart rate kicks up and stumbles drunkenly at the possibility that he's finally broken Castiel down, after a full two weeks of relentless attempts.

"Does he want to meet him?" Castiel moves his wrist in a graceful, circular motion that makes the scotch wash up against the walls of his glass like an amber sea under a dome. "The boy, I mean. Meet your father."

"I-" Dean shakes his head, confused. Truthfully, Sam's only reaction to the revelation seemed to be an overwhelming excitement at being Dean's half-brother. Which makes absolutely no sense to Dean. "I'm not sure. He- he's kind of different."

Castiel leans forward from his boneless sprawl. Dean's breath hitches as he ventures into his personal space, the old-fashioned lantern in the Deputy's office lending him an unearthly glow.

"It must be hereditary, this difference, then," Castiel says in a soft voice, his mouth so close to Dean's that he actually forgets what he's talking about. "How fascinating."

It's a window if he ever saw one. Dean reaches out, curves a hand around Castiel's cheek, and catalogues the rough feel of stubble against his palm. Castiel watches him like he's the subject of a test on Monday.

When Dean kisses him, there's no sense of unreality. Just a small sigh from Castiel, as if at the face of something inevitable.

(break)

They spray-paint general insults on the walls of the locker rooms and gym, and the cans roll around, empty and appeased, on the the floor of Sam's room as they sit on the floor eating ice cream.

Sam leans over, kisses Dean, tasting of coffee flavored ice cream. He's smiling, has been for hours now. The ice cream melts and drips as Sam pushes Dean on the floor gently and crawls over his body. He touches the corner of Dean's eye with the tip of his thumb.

"That one about Singer," he says, licking a sticky terrain up Dean's cheek and Dean twists a hand in his hair, drags shim up for a proper kiss. He means the hit at Singer that they'd painted diagonally near the basketballs hoops. "Sheer genius, that was."

"All you, baby," Dean drawls lazily, just to watch the flush rise on Sam's face.

Sam laughs breathlessly as Dean slides the T-shirt off him, hands fumbling. "And Superhero Novak, I swear."

Dean touches his smooth chest, lets his hand wander to the graceful curve of Sam's spine. It drifts downward, slow and deliberate, and Sam's eyes widen.

"Really?" He sounds hopeful, shivering badly when Dean's fingers draw slow circles under his jeans.

Dean cocks an eyebrow. "What do you mean, Sammy?" he asks, all innocence.

Sam groans, shudders with his entire body. Dean shushes him with a finger in his mouth, which he sucks diligently.

"Fuck me, Dean," Sam whispers raggedly, hissing and arching as one of Dean's saliva-slickened fingers slips into him with no warning. He makes a keening moan as Dean's finger moves. "Please. You did it for him. Do it for me."

Dean's hand stills. "What?"

Sam groans, loud, desperate. He pushes back against Dean's fingers -two for now- but Dean pulls them out. "Novak," Sam hisses. "I know you're fucking him. I saw you."

Sam kisses him then, rough, teeth clashing and Dean's struggling. He tastes blood on Sims's tongue.

Sam draws back, alarmed. "Dean? Are you bleeding? Fuck, Dean, I'm sorry, I'm so-"

Dean touches Sam's lip gently with his fingertips. "No, little brother," he says, quiet, gentle. His fingers come away bloody, and he shows Sam. "You are."

(break)

His name's Colin Kincaid and he happens to them somewhere late in March. The hallways are suddenly thick with speculation as to his murder, the golden boy who hurt no one. The pictures at assembly showed him as a sixteen-year old with big green eyes and masses of golden hair cut close to his head. Despite that, there was nothing feminine in the square jaw, the clear-eyed gaze.

Dean mentally labels him a fag and regrets not knowing him while alive, but otherwise ignores the tremor of fear and excitement that shakes the whole school.

He's spending more and more time sneaking off with Novak, so that how he knows Castiel best is with his lips moaning Dean's name and his lust-drunk eyes scanning the horizon for witnesses. Once he tied himself to the bedpost of Castiel's bachelor flat and Castiel had been arguing with him even as he took Dream's cock in his mouth.

They walk into a classroom between periods, laughing, Dean's hand around Castiel's waist, and Sam is there.

They all freeze, and Sam drops his pen. It bleeds ink on the floor, ignored and petulant.

"I'll, um," Sam stammers, and Dean stares at the floor, his spine going awkwardly stiff. "I-"

"You do your work, Campbell. Winchester and I were on our way to mark assignments."

"Really." Sam's voice echoes flatly.

Dean winces. How can Castiel be oblivious to the blinding edge of friction between him and Sam, the one that chokes all the air in the room?

Finally, he looks up, straight at Sam. Their eyes meet in a near-audible clash, and Dean realizes how long it's been since he's seen Sam last.

Sam's here now, his eyes strange and dark. He looks at Dean like he hates Dean completely.

"I'll just go," he says quietly, and he does. On the way, he stops just parallel to Dean, and they stare at each other for over ten seconds, and then Sam's eyes flicker over, for the briefest moment, to Castiel.

Then he leaves.

Two days later, Castiel Novak is arrested on suspicion of manslaughter and sexual liaisons with minors.

(break)

Dean's still with rage, his hands clenched into stones at his sides. Sam's eye is swelling shut even as he watches, a shocking dark bloom in his pale face.

"Why'd you do it, Sam?"

There are tears of pain and rage on Sam's long eyelashes. The starlight picks them out like diamonds.

The sky's crammed full of stars, little judging glimmers of light. Look at them for too long and you could drown in them.

Dean feels like he's drowning himself, the rafters of the roof treacherously liquid under his feet. He feels helpless, struck down with disbelief, because Sam, Sam did this.

Sam's bleeding now, the tear tracks turning a muted pink. "Dean, no, it's not like that!" he cries.

Dean grabs his collar, leaving bloody thumbprints. "You ratted him out. If it isn't like that, what's it like, then, you little shit?"

Sam cries, "I did it for you, Dean! He would have ratted you out!"

Dean freezes, his grip on Sam slackening. Sam takes the opportunity to scramble too his feet.

They're on the roof of the bell tower- highest point of the whole school. Just hours before, officers in blue uniform had stormed in like a swarm of flies ad marched Castiel out.

Sam keeps talking, young and desperate. "He knew what you were like, Dean. He'd have told that you killed him-that Kincaid kid."

"What?" Dean feels like he's on a loop here; running and running and coming back to the same place.

"This way we can be together, just you and me, just the way we want. We can leave, Dean, and be whatever we want. Brothers, lovers, whatever. You and me, Dean. Free."

For the length of a second, Dean's stuck by the hilarity of it all: kids dying and police officers everywhere and fourteen year olds proposing marriage. And then he's just baffled. "You thought I killed Kincaid?"

Sam's face scrunches in confused defiance. "Yeah, I did. I've seen him around, the guy looked just like you but so fucking perfect, I knew you-"

"No, you didn't, Sammy," and Sam flinches at his tone: gentle, understanding. Castiel's tone. "You're not that dumb. You just wanted Cas out of the way."

Sam takes a small step back, his expression wrenched. "He wasn't the saint you make him out to be," he hisses, and Dean begins laughing helplessly. "What he was doing was wrong, you're-"

"Over sixteen," Dean interjects. "Legally, it's not a crime. The worst he faced was getting fired, not the death penalty."

Sam opens his mouth, but Dean's shaking his head, still laughing. "Anyway, the best part is that none of it makes a difference anyway. Don't you see, Sam? You're just a kid. You're not my brother and I'm sure as hell not in love with you."

For a split second, the world sighs quietly, and stops moving and focuses all its energy on the two figures on the rooftop. Silence descends.

Then, one of them reaches out and grabs the other's shirt. At a distance, it looks like he's about to pull him in for a kiss. Instead, he pushes.

The fall is long, slow. In slow motion, the boy's feet leave the rafters and hit thin air and he falls, falls, falls. Captivatingly beautiful, he flies.

The minute his body hits ground is inconsequential. It's his sleight that makes him immortal.

On the roof, the other boy stands frozen. Then he falls to his knees .

(break)

The renovations begin in late August, when school has let out. The series of tragedies that struck the school -the deaths of two promising students in quick succession, the arrest of a beloved teacher- seem to warrant a change of atmosphere and school governors leap to the task with fervor.

The buildings are knocked down, and a boy transfers out of school for the coming year. He moves to France with his family.

The boy fits in perfectly in his new French school.

He's bright, well-spoken and the teachers instantly take to him. Good-looking, but tall enough to seem threatening when necessary.

He calls himself Sam Winchester.

THE END


End file.
